mizChartreuse!

My heart raced as I sped down Dundee Rd. from Buffalo Grove to my parents’ home in Palatine. It was early October 2004, and I had just gotten off work at Sam Ash. I was scared that he was following behind me on the road, or at home. I was worried that anyone would be home when I arrived, which would further complicate matters. Relieved to find that nobody else’s car was in the parking lot of our apartment complex, I dashed into our building and surveyed the mess that was my little sister’s and my shared bedroom, looking for “valuables.”

My cell phone rang and my heart stopped. “It’s Laura,” the voice on the other line said. Thank GOD. “Where ARE you? Are you okay?” She sounded scared for me, and pissed.

“I’m fine,” I responded. I had to be short with her so I could get out. “I’ll be out of here and on my way soon.”

Within fifteen minutes of entering my family’s empty apartment that had been home for so many years, I gathered everything that was of importance to me (which wasn’t much), stuffed what items could in my little black Volkswagen Jetta, and was again speeding down the road, bound for 53 South toward Woodfield.

At Laura’s apartment, I brought up my overnight bag and sank onto her couch, hoping my heart rate would soon return to normal. My phone must have rang fifteen to twenty times, with an accompanying threatening voice mail message for each time I hit the “reject” button. Scared to listen to the contents of my inbox, Laura did it for me.

“CHARLOTTE. GIVE ME THE KEYS TO THE CAR.” “BRING THE CAR BACK.” “COME HOME.” “YOU ARE A DISOBEDIENT CHILD, I’M NOT PUTTING UP WITH THIS NONSENSE ANYMORE.” They went on and on, becoming increasingly menacing with each succeeding message. Eventually, I turned my phone off and tried to settle into a semblance of normalcy with my girl Laura, sipping on red wine and watching old VHS tapes of Janis Joplin and Nirvana footage, and much later, strings of back to back Roseanne.

Eventually I would drive out to the Chicago to stay with my friend Angelique (who was staying with her older cousin), and she and I would experience being on the brink of homelessness before finding our own first apartment.

***

That was five years ago.

I have moved several times since then, all under different interesting, urgent circumstances. But today, I made one of the most significant moves of my life.

As with most things I do, I left moving to the absolute last acceptable minute. Sure, 90% of my clothes were already at Sean’s house, but when you own as much clothes as I do, that remaining 10% can be pretty daunting. Sean moved to Pilsen from Waukegan back in late October, and I’ve slowly been bringing my most important belongings to his place over the last couple months.

And then I realized how much non-important stuff I own and have been carting around for years. SO MUCH SHIT.

I mean, aside from my box full of photos from my youth (and don’t you kinda miss having to get pictures developed?), I can say that probably 80% (I like breaking my life down into percentages) of my belongings I could have done just fine without. But those are the kind of things you look at when deciding what to toss or keep that you think, Oh, but I just CAN’T get rid of this receipt from my trip to Ghana that shows I spent $185,000 (which is really referring to the Ghanaian currency of Cedis instead of Dollars) because it looks like I’m a G. Droppin’ STACKS on BOOKS.” Or the fact that I feel the need to hold on to FIVE copies of every article that was published in my university’s Star newspaper, and TEN copies of my front-page feature…

But overall, the move was fairly painless, considering I DIDN’T PACK ANYTHING in advance. Well, Sean would say otherwise, since he was the one hauling bins full of my hundreds of hardcovers and paperbacks (which were truly the heaviest things in the damn world). But it was successful, and I’m glad to be in a cohabiting state as of now.

Before he moved to the city, I had my mind set: “I ain’t movin’ ’til I see a RANG on this finger,” holding up my left hand in true Beyonce style. But in true Gemini style, I changed my mind, because also in true Gemini style, I adopt to the situation around me. And this situation warranted that I move, because I have been staying at Sean’s place every day since he moved to my ‘hood. So, since I’m always there, why should I be paying rent and utilities (which, in the grand scheme of my modest income, are INCREDIBLY NEGLIGIBLE) at a place that was essentially a giant storage unit? There was no need for me to be paying for three other girls’ usage of curling irons and heating blankets.

So today I moved. And it was a pain in the ass, but so very relieving.

*****

And very much unlike the first time I moved in with a significant other. I was 20 years old and dating some dude (who, in the grand scheme of my incredible life, was INCREDIBLY NEGLIGIBLE), and we were at one or the other’s house each night. So in his logic, we may as well live together “to save money.” [It must be noted that he was incredibly money-conscious and cheap; cheap enough to be called "Jewface Killah" by his closest friends. And he WASN'T EVEN JEWISH. Seriously, dude would count pennies in his jar so the bank wouldn't rip him off when he went to turn them into cash.]

I didn’t want to live with him. I didn’t think it was a good idea, and most of my friends (who mostly happened to be YEARS older than me) advised against it. “Char, I would NOT live with a man again until I’m engaged.” “Girl, you’re only TWENTY. What the hell are you doing?” “Oh, so what happens WHEN you break up?” (There were no ifs.) And I felt it, and agreed.

“Please. Don’t listen to them,” dude said. “Why can’t you be your own person? Why do you base your life on others’ wisdom?” Key word: wisdom. Other key fact: I WAS FUCKING TWENTY YEARS OLD.

But I obliged. “BUT,” I told him, “I HAVE to have my own bedroom. I need a space that’s my own.”

What did we end up with? A two-bedroom. But we were living with our mutual friend, so me and dude ended up having to share a room. Which I didn’t want, on top of NOT WANTING TO MOVE IN WITH HIM IN THE FIRST PLACE.

So of course, we moved in.

And it all went to hell within eight months.

It was fun in the beginning, and we had parties up the wazoo, but neither of us were ready for nor understood what having a true adult relationship entailed. Hell, I started dating this guy not because I was severely attracted to him, but because he brought me contact solution, a can of 99-cent Arizona iced tea, and CANDY from the Walgreen’s in the same parking lot of our workplace, Sam Ash Music. Wow, what effort! Clearly, it didn’t take much with me at that particular juncture of my life.

Cutting to the chase, I ended up loathing him. We weren’t talking, there was drama, I cheated on him, he cheated on me, we broke up, blah blah, but were still living together. I went to France for fifteen days straight and didn’t tell him (well I did, but via a very public MySpace blog saying I was in Paris). I returned to Chicago from Europe around 11 p.m. Central, slept on my futon in the living room, and in the morning as soon as my roommates had both left for work, I once again packed up all my shit into my tiny little Jetta and left without a word…BACK to the apartment I had lived in eight months prior. The guy who had replaced me in my old four-bedroom apartment oh-so-conveniently went stark raving mad (as in throwing the garbage from the kitchen ALL OVER THE APARTMENT), and his room opened up just in time. (Thank God I didn’t burn any bridges with my former landlord!)

Things always work out.

And I lived there until today.

And things always work out. For the best.

I had a couple silly tumultuous relationships which were incredible learning experiences over the years, but ultimately since then, I’ve maintained my independence and stayed true to myself.

*****

So what was different this time? Why did I decide to move in with this man who has not yet proposed to me? This time, I wasn’t pressured to do things. I’m a little bit older than 20 (but not by much), but in such a ridiculously amazing relationship that every single person I’ve told about the move has been SO INCREDIBLY HAPPY FOR ME. “You and Sean are MEANT for each other; you KNOW this is true.” “I LOVE you, Char, and I love you two together even more.” “You’re moving in together? FUCK YEAH IT’S ABOUT TIME!”

This time around, it’s a very different story than what happened back in 2006 when I let myself be coerced into a weird-ass cohabiting situation that was all sorts of wrong. And it’s different even from 2004, when I was running away from my father, who was in one of his long-lasting, euphoric bipolar episodes, trying to steal my car and smash me down into a “disobedient child” when really, I was just working and supporting myself as I had been for so long, and asserting my independence.

This time around, it’s not that I’ve moved in with Sean because my friends told me it’s a GOOD idea. It’s because I believe I know how to do it right now. And even people who “know how to do it” make mistakes, but I’ll never reach a point where I stop making mistakes. This time, especially judging from my learning experiences in my disorderly and racous youth, I have the desire and drive to do things right. I’ve dated plenty of fish, and I’ve found my catch.

So here’s to new beginnings, living in sin, saving money, and increasing the pleasure threshold of my daily life.

Cheers to growing up.

[not-so-many cheers to my BOOM! LifeExplosionBomb that went off in our living room. Sigh...]